


Daughter of Eve

by havisham



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Downton Abbey
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Dubious Morality, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:03:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fallen woman meets her savior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daughter of Eve

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dreamwidth community, **[intoabar](http://intoabar.dreamwidth.org/)** , with the prompt - _Mary Crawley walks into a bar and meets Aslan!_
> 
> And then it took on a life of its own.

**I.**

Once, very long ago, before the old century had properly died, Mary came upon a door that hadn’t been there before. It was opposite a hunting tapestry -- a dreadful thing, as ugly as sin and twice as old, and next to a portrait by a follower of Gainsborough, of a red-faced Crawley standing with his hounds, and his horse and his house. Separated from him by some distance, sat his wife, looking glacial, pale and faintly venomous.

Mary spared another glance at the lady, who seemed to stare back at her grimly, her gaze secretive. They were alike, she thought, both willowy and thin, the same sharp faces and dark eyes that missed nothing. Mary had lost the childlike fullness of her face early, as soon as she turned twelve, and her legs stretched out until she was taller than her mother and could look her father in the eye. (And she very often did.) 

She had not often visited this part of the house before -- none of the family lived there, and it was only used when the house was filled with guests. Distantly, she could hear Mrs. Hughes’ voice echoing down the long corridors, scolding a new housemaid. 

Edith and Sybil were not with her. 

Mary felt herself to be far too mature for play, especially with Edith who complained at being left out, but also cried at the drop of a hat at every single thing Mary did. (Honestly, Edith did nothing for Mary’s temper. In fact, she often found herself in a beastly temper whenever she was around her younger sister.) Sybil was a darling -- the baby, the heart of the family -- but she was too young to be let out much from the nursery. 

The governess, a tired old crow of a woman, had dismissed Mary after lessons with a barely hidden sigh of relief, taking out a yellow-backed novel even before she had left the room. Mary supposed that she ought to tell her mother about it. But for now she kept it to herself, and wandered the house, as freely as she pleased.

That was how she had found the door. It was quite innocuous, paneled with dark polished wood, like all the others in the house. The brass knob felt warm in her hand. 

Somewhere down the hall, grandfather clock ticked and tocked. It was almost dinner-time, and Anna would surely be waiting to dress her for dinner. Mary was now just old enough to join her parents at the table, instead of eating with the children in the nursery. 

It certainly did her no good to loll about in hallways, doing nothing. She wasn’t Edith, after all. People expected something from her. She was the eldest daughter, the one that everything depended on. 

She ought to _go._

Instead, Mary turned the doorknob -- it wasn’t locked after all -- and from inside came a blast of wintry air, carrying with it flurries of snow. She gasped and took a step forward, half-stumbling. It was impossible that this was a forest of pine trees, and the sky overhead was darkening grey, promising more snow. Mary’s heart pounded in her chest, painfully quick. Her breath condensed into a fog around her mouth, blurring her vision. 

It was impossible, of course. It was spring. The gardeners had brought in sprays of lilacs and lilies into the house, for her mother to arrange. But this . . . .

Mary took a cautious step out of the door, into winter. She kept a hand on the doorknob and her back against the wood. She was horribly afraid that if she let it go, it would disappear and she would be trapped here. The snow came up to her ankles, and soaked her thin spring dress. She shivered and looked around. The sky had darkened into night, and only the light was the moon reflecting upon the snow. 

Suddenly, Mary tumbled back into the hallway, bringing with her snow and pine leaves. Someone was calling her name. It was Anna’s voice. Mary scrambled up and dusted off her dress, and ran as fast as she could to the nursery. 

Edith was there, reading a book, a plate of biscuits and cup of hot milk on the table beside her. She eyed her older sister critically. “Everyone thinks you’ve been kidnapped,” she said  
conversationally. 

“Don’t be silly,” Mary said, snatching some of her biscuits away. She felt quite ravenous.

After that, it became more and more difficult to slip away. Everyone seemed to have their eyes on her. The old governess was dismissed, and a young one, with a sharp eye, took her place. No opportunity presented itself until the very end of summer, with the house in an uproar over Cousin James returning from abroad and bringing Patrick with him.

Mary disliked Patrick intensely, he was sniveling and tiresome, and, of course, got on famously with Edith. But now was her chance -- no one would notice if she was gone, and yes, the door was still there. No hesitation now. Mary went through and the door disappeared behind her. It was broad daylight here, though it was nighttime behind the door. She did not walk very far until she heard the sound of sleigh-bells ringing. 

 

*****

 

“How sweet you are,” the White Queen said, her voice as cold as her hands which touched Mary’s face. Mary shivered and pulled her arms around her body, her thin summer dress inadequate in the chill of the palace. The Queen continued, as if she hadn’t noticed. “But you have no brothers at all? Nothing but sisters?” 

Mary did not think it wise to look into the Queen’s eyes. “We are enough. I believe. Your Majesty.” 

The Queen smiled. Mary could not help but notice that they looked very much alike. The same hair, the same eyes, the sharp-looking face. There was one difference -- the Queen’s skin was as white as salt. 

“I think I will keep you, pet,” the Queen said, her smile growing 

 

 *****

 

The days grew to weeks, and still spring did not come. 

 

*****

 

It was snowing again. Mary’s breath fogged up the window-pane. She looked out into the courtyard of statues and saw a flash of gold among the grey and white. She blinked, but there it was again. 

 

*****

 

Aslan’s paw was heavy on her head. “Sleep, Daughter of Eve. Sleep and forget.” 

She could only obey. 

 

*****

 

She woke to Edith’s face, streaked with tears, and Sybil’s howls. 

“Mary! Mary!” Edith cried, sniffling. “Please wake up. I promise we won’t fight anymore.” 

Mary cracked open an eye and found herself lying in bed, quite safe and sound. She drawled, “What an appalling liar you are, Edith.” 

Edith blinked and began to cry harder. 

 

 **II.**

Matthew pressed his face against her neck, and Mary sighed, reluctant to let him go. There were red marks on his shoulder, which she looked upon with some satisfaction and he caught her, and gave her a wry look. She said in voice rich with humor, “Of course, we can do this as much as we want, now.” 

Then she ruined it, by blushing. Matthew laughed, pleased by her blush, by her person. He kissed her and then pulled away for a moment, and leaned against the headboard, looking a little tired. “We can do many, many things now. I don’t suppose --?” 

“Mm?” Mary began to put her hair back into a braid, it had loosened meanwhile. She only half-attended to what Matthew was saying. 

“I don’t suppose,” he said, his blue eyes sparkling, “Downton Abbey has any ghosts?” 

Mary pretended to consider. Slowly, she said, “I can’t say, of course, such things always frighten the servants.” 

“Of course.” He tried to look severe, but couldn’t quite manage. “You haven’t seen anything, have you?” 

“No, certainly not,” Mary scoffed. Then she hesitated, an old memory stirred in her mind. She hesitated, and Matthew raised an eyebrow. 

Slowly, Mary said, “I remember -- once, years ago. No, it’s silly.” 

“Mary! Please?” 

It came out in a rush. “I saw a door than hadn’t been there before. Or so I believed.” She laughed and shook her head, and turned to Matthew expecting him to do the same. 

Then she lapsed into silence, shifted away from him, her face towards the door. 

“Darling, you can’t just leave it there,” Matthew said, and eventually persuaded her to speak. 

The next day, after breakfast, Matthew took her by the arm, and they wandered around the house, until they came upon the spot between the portrait and the tapestry. The long-dead Crawleys looked down at their descendants, on the opposite wall, the pack of hounds wove in and out of a knot, while a hunter, in green, charged forth on a golden horse. The background was grey and dark, the color of tarnished silver. 

Between the portrait and the tapestry was a bare expanse of wall, and though Matthew dutifully tapped on the panels, there was nothing else to see. 

 

 **III.**

 

Tom drove her to the railway station, his hands were steady as they rounded the corner where Matthew had died. The family had erected a stone there -- a column, really, and it flashed by them like a ghost. Mary caught Tom’s eye, and there was understanding there and warmth. She kissed him when she got out, his stubbled check rasping over her soft lips.

He gave her a questioning look, and she laughed, high and false. “I’m not bolting, don’t look so worried.” 

It had been months, a year, since she has traveled down to London, and she felt like a Mid-Victorian adrift in roaring whirlwind of modernity, with its packs of young girls, with their hair cut short, who eyed her low hemline insolently. She drifted through several shops and markets, buying nothing except a white stuffed rabbit for George and a book of fairy-stories for Sybil. 

In the late afternoon, as the sun finally conceded defeat and dipped behind the clouds, not to be seen again, and she dropped off her packages at the Crawley family townhouse, which had been opened for her especially. Aunt Rosamund, to Mary’s intense relief, was visiting an old school friend in Wales, so Mary could do as she liked for dinner. 

She soaked in the big claw-footed tub for ages, until her fingers were wrinkled. She examined them minutely, until the maid -- not Anna, who stayed behind at Downton -- came in to dry her and dress her. She rejected out of hand, most of the dresses that she had brought with her. 

Eventually, she settled on the only one that did not look all together dire -- a slim black dress with a dropped waistline and a flared skirt, lavishly decorated with beads and sequins. The silhouette looked well on her -- for once, she was glad to have no hips to speak of. The whole thing was almost too gaudy, really, too much, but she resolved not to think of that now.

Her hair was still unfashionably long. She paused in front of the mirror. Matthew had loved her hair, had loved the way it slipped through his fingers. “Promise me you’ll never cut it,” he had said, and she, then indulgent, had agreed. She pinned it back with a pair of diamond and silver clips.

Mary did not look like mutton dressed as a lamb (or at least she hoped), and the cab was waiting to take her away. 

 

*****

 

Mary danced until dawn, and then went home. She telephoned Downton to say that she was a little ill and would be staying in town until she grew better. The next day, she wore white, and felt as if ice ran through her veins. She kissed men and they faltered and froze, turned into stone. 

She was ill, she was. She had violent dreams, of unspeakable cruelty and deplorable words. She wakes to the sound of distant roaring and a tongue that tastes of blood. She lost, and she lost, and grew colder and more formal. 

Her heart beat less, as if it was frozen in her chest. 

 

*****

 

Edith’s voice was scratchy and faint over the crackle of the telephone reception. “We’re the only ones left,” she repeated and Mary pressed the handle to disconnect. 

_We’re the only ones left._

 

*****

 

One night, Mary sat alone at a table in the dark corner of the club, where the music was far too loud and the smoke was far too thick. She twisted her wedding ring on her slim finger, but she never took it off, had never had a reason to do so. It wasn’t very much a discouragement anyway, not with this lot. 

She drank a delicately rose-colored cocktail and waited for the evening to start. A Lion walked in and frightened the waiter half-out of his mind. But Mary merely raised an eyebrow a faction and finished her drink. It was -- he was -- gorgeous, far larger than the mangy-looking things at the zoo and looked at her in a very familiar way. As if he knew her, his eyes bright and gold and deep. 

After a suitable pause, Mary said, “I do not think we have been introduced.” 

The Lion laughed; his laugh was like roar. “Daughter of Eve, I think you know who I am.” 

“I don’t think so,” she said, and she felt a little insulted, as if she were unfairly diminished somehow. She recovered enough to say sweetly, “Would you like a dish of cream? I’m afraid the waiter will not come just now.” 

The Lion shook his magnificent head, and the world slotted back into place. The music rose to new heights, and the waiter in front of her table stumbled a little, and shook himself, confused. The Lion, of course, was no longer there. 

 

Mary told herself later that she must have dreamed it. 

 

*****

 

She dreamed often now. 

Of digging her hands into his plush fur, and sitting astride him, and feeling the movement of his muscles under her thighs. He was running, the green country around was a blur, until they came into a garden. She slipped to the ground and her body sank into the soft grasses, and she understood without being told that once, she could have come through a door and had all of this, to be a queen, as she deserved. 

“But I was needed there,” she said, and the Lion’s tongue, rough and hot, licked at her neck and skimmed her breasts, and went down to her sex. It should hurt, it should peel her skin off, but it didn’t and she bucked, gasping, and clawed at the grass. The scent of crushed greenery rose around her, and Lion’s breath, like steam, caressed her burning face. 

She pushed back against him. 

“More,” she commanded and he obeyed. 

 

*****

 

She remembered cutting the Lion’s neck, and letting the blood run down her hands. The stone knife clattered on the ground, where she had dropped it, and the Lion turned its head, his eyes sorrowful and deep. 

He licked the blood from her fingers, and heard when she said, half-fearfully, “I would like another chance.” 

 

*****

 

When Mary stepped out of the train, her little retinue was there to greet her. Edith was there as well, and looked reproachful, but then her mother came up and embraced her. 

 

George had grown to be a pudgy little cub of a boy, with soft sandy hair and eyes as dark as hers. Mary took him into her arms and cuddled him, and he bravely endured it, though she was virtual stranger to him now. His fine baby-skin smelled of milk and soap. Mary closed her eyes and sighed. 

She tucked in a stray curl that obscured his forehead, and resolved that he should never wander through the strange corners of the house alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Oshun, for beta-ing. Thank you, silveronthetree, for for your suggestions!


End file.
